The theater is dim except for the glow of the stage, some contemporary piece the company has been required to watch. Everyone’s pretending to be attentive. No one really is.

You slip out of your seat halfway through, murmuring something about the bathroom. No one questions it. They never do.

You find Iris standing off to the side near the wings, half-hidden by a velvet curtain, arms crossed, jaw tight. She doesn’t look at you at first. You take your place beside her anyway, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

“You’re missing riveting art,” you murmur.

She exhales through her nose. “I’ve seen it already.”

“Of course you have,” you say. “You see everything before the rest of us.”

That earns you a glance. Sharp. Familiar.

You let the silence stretch, the way you always do, until it presses. Then you say it—quiet, too quiet.

“What about last night?”

Her reaction is immediate. Iris leans closer, voice low and edged. “Last night means nothing,” she hisses.

The words land harder than you expect. Your expression shifts despite yourself. You look back toward the stage, blinking, jaw tightening.

“Oh,” you say. “Right. Nothing.”

She notices. Of course she does. Iris always notices when she’s gone too far.

She turns fully toward you, steps into your space. Her hand brushes your wrist, deliberate. Then she leans in, lips grazing the corner of your mouth—brief, charged, reckless.

“Iris,” you whisper, pulling back just enough. “People are around.”

Her jaw clenches. You can see it. Feel it in the way her body goes still.

“Then go back to your seat,” she says, voice flat now, controlled.

The stage lights flare brighter. Applause swells from the audience.

You hesitate for half a second—long enough for her to notice—then turn and walk away, heart pounding, the echo of her presence still burning at your side.

Behind you, Iris doesn’t move. She just watches the stage, hands fisted at her sides, like she hasn’t already lost focus entirely.